The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Telling himself to take it easy, cool down and not blow this, he moved silently along the hall past a short turn to the showers, past the doors to a janitor’s room and a supply closet. He tried both doors, silently turning the knobs knowing they’d be locked. Janitor’s room was locked, all right, but Lee paused, startled, when the door to the supply closet swung in. Shelves of sheets, blankets, towels pale in the dim light from the hall. He located the light switch but left it off, left the door barely cracked open. Moving on, he stood against the wall outside the open door to the dormitory, glancing in.

  Above the low barriers he could just see just the top of Falon’s head, and again his two friends stood leaning against the wall. Was that Falon’s mode when he was in prison, to collect two or three sleazy sidekicks to play lackey for him? The pudgy kid was crossing his eyes and staggering around with his tongue out, grinning evilly.

  “Knock it off,” Falon snapped. He rose and pulled off his prison shirt, dark with bloodstains. “Now,” he said softly, “I can’t wait to bust the old son of a bitch. Hand me that towel and the soap—no, the big bar.” Carrying the soiled shirt under his towel, he headed for the door. Lee drew back, stepped into the supply closet, and eased the door closed.

  When Falon had passed, Lee followed, his bridled anger making his heart pound. Followed Falon down the short corridor to the showers. Just before Falon entered the tiled room, Lee grabbed his shoulder and swung him around. Falon lunged for Lee’s throat. Stepping back fast, Lee judged his distance, brought his foot crashing into Falon’s crotch. Falon doubled over holding himself, groaning, rocking back and forth.

  It took all Lee’s strength to drag him to the supply room and shove him inside; Falon sprawled on the floor, still holding himself. Lee pulled the door closed, switched on the light, and straddled Falon, whipping the cable around his neck. The man was hurting too bad to fight much, his blows were weak and off center. Lee locked his knees, pinning Falon’s arms, tightening the cable around his throat. Writhing, Falon began to choke.

  “I’ve killed men like this before, Falon. It isn’t hard to do.”

  When he saw Falon was strangling he loosened the cable a little, let him gulp a breath, then tightened it again. “Tell me where you hid the money.”

  Falon slammed his body against Lee’s imprisoning legs. Lee tightened the cable until Falon’s face grew red, sucking for breath.

  “What’s the matter, Falon? You can’t talk? Well, that’s all right, just tap with your hand when you’re ready to tell me and I’ll loosen your tie.”

  Falon didn’t respond. Lee increased the pressure, sinking the cable deeper. “Talk to me. Tell me where you hid the money.” He pulled again, carefully. If he killed Falon, it would be all over. Nervous sweat ran down Lee’s face. “Tell me or you’re finished. Where’s the bank money?” As he tightened the cable again a hot desire surged through Lee, to see Falon die, a viciousness that was not part of his plan. He fought to hold himself in check, tightening the cable only slowly. “Where?” he hissed. “Where did you hide it?” He felt himself losing control, filled with a hunger that was not his own, suddenly wild to kill, drawing the cable too tight. Falon’s eyes began to bulge; fear made Lee loosen the cable, he watched Falon suck in air. Would Falon die before he talked? Tighter, gently tighter . . .

  Falon gave a weak tap on his arm, staring up blearily at him. Lee released the pressure and leaned close, straining to hear.

  “Georgia,” Falon rasped. “North of Rome.”

  “Where north of Rome? Tell me where, or you’re dead.”

  Falon’s look became pleading. “You’ll be getting out soon. I can’t get at the money, but I know someone who can. I’ll split it with you, I’ll have them put it in a bank, send you the deposit book. Half of all the money, Fontana.”

  “That’s hogwash.” But even so, a hot greed hit Lee, his blood quickened at easy money. Shaking off the dark hunger, he pulled the cable and twisted and felt Falon’s body jerk. “Tell me where. I don’t want your deal.”

  Watching Lee, Falon grabbed at the cable. “North . . . North of Rome. Tur . . . Turkey Mountain Ridge,” he whispered, gasping.

  “Where is that? Where on the ridge?”

  “Morgan will know,” Falon said, choking. “East side—old homeplace.”

  “Where on the homeplace?”

  Silence. Lee shoved his knee in Falon’s belly, pulling . . .

  “The bot . . . bottom of the well . . . abandoned well.”

  “Does anyone else know?

  “No.”

  “Natalie Hooper?” Lee said, easing off a little.

  “Not her, she’d have gone for it.” Falon’s eyes were begging. “Half the money if you let me live. We’ll go together when I get out, I’ll show you where.”

  “I don’t need you to show me anything. If you’re telling the truth,” Lee said, shifting his weight but still holding Falon pinned. “You nearly killed Morgan. Now you’re going to talk to the law, tell them where to find the money. You’re going to do it now, tonight. You’re going to swear to me, Falon, that you’ll tell the law the whole story.” He tightened the cable again. “If it’s there, it should take only a few hours to find it. If you’re lying, if they don’t find anything, I’ll kill you before you’re out of here.”

  “I—I’ll tell them,” Falon wheezed.

  There was little more Lee could do. He removed the cable, revealing angry red lines circling Falon’s throat. “You go back on me, Falon, you refuse to talk, you’re dead.”

  He knew Falon would sing a different tune as soon as he felt secure. “Once I talk to the warden, they won’t release you until you tell what you know. And it better be straight talk.” Lee stood up, coiled the cable, and dropped it in his pocket. Falon didn’t rise, he rolled over, avoiding pressure on his tender crotch and one hand caressing his throat. Lee flipped off the light, casting the storeroom in blackness, peered out to check the hall, then left, shutting the door behind him. It must be nearly an hour since Morgan was taken to the infirmary. He wanted to go back there, wanted to see Morgan, but instead he headed for the administration building, before his counselor left for the day.

  There had been no lockdown, no Klaxon, though he saw guards everywhere. He found John Taylor still at his desk, putting away files. Lee approached the desk, his adrenaline pumping hard. “I know it’s late in the day, but it’s important.”

  Taylor gestured for him to sit down.

  Reaching in his pocket, Lee dropped Reginald Storm’s business card on the desk. “Storm is my attorney and Morgan’s. We need him bad, tonight. Could you call him, ask if he could come on out?”

  Taylor studied Lee. “Why the hurry? I know Blake was taken to the infirmary. Tell me what’s going on. Why suddenly an attorney?”

  “Because Blake’s hurt,” Lee said. “I need to talk with Storm. In person, not on the phone. Afterward, Storm will fill you in.”

  Taylor sat watching him. Lee could read nothing in his expression. “How bad is he?” Lee said warily. “He’s not . . . They wouldn’t tell me a damn thing.”

  “He has a concussion. He’s conscious only some of the time. They’re doing their best to keep him awake, there’s an orderly with him.” He looked again at the attorney’s card. “Tell me what’s going on, and I’ll see about calling Storm.”

  “I’ll tell you after you call him. I promise you that. This could mean Morgan’s life, if he makes it, there in the infirmary. This could mean the rest of his life.”

  Taylor was silent again. Lee wondered how straight the young man would be, how much he could trust him. “I can tell you this,” Lee said, “it was Brad Falon who attacked Blake.” He was taking a chance on this. If they locked Falon down, and they sure as hell would, and if Falon had lied to him, Lee couldn’t get at him again.

  On the other hand, Falon couldn’t get at Morgan, either.

  Still Taylor said nothing.

  “New information has come to light,” Lee said. “Ev
idence that could clear Morgan of all charges, that could free him . . . If he lives,” he said softly.

  Taylor looked tired suddenly, looked knowing and weary. Lee thought he was going to refuse. But prisoners were allowed two phone calls a week, and so far he hadn’t made any calls. He looked steadily at Taylor until, sighing, Taylor ran a hand through his crew cut hair, set Storm’s card before him and picked up the phone.

  LEE AND STORM sat in the prison interviewing room. Two folding metal chairs and a scarred oak table, on which Storm had dropped his briefcase. A guard was stationed outside the door. Storm looked like he’d already put in a hard day. His rumpled suit coat hung crookedly over the back of his chair, his tie hung loose, his shirtsleeves were rolled up. When Lee told him Falon had spilled, had revealed where the bank money was hidden, a grin transformed Storm’s tired, rugged face.

  It had taken the attorney only twenty minutes to get out to the prison from downtown. In that time, Lee had returned to the infirmary hoping to see Morgan, but he wasn’t allowed in. He did get one of the medics to talk to him. The freckled, towheaded medic told him, “Blake’s alive. In and out of consciousness. We’re doing our best to keep him awake, he sure has a concussion.”

  But no one would let Lee see him. Did they think Lee himself might have bashed Morgan? All Lee could think was, Morgan had to recover. They’d come this far, they were so close. Morgan wouldn’t give up, Lee couldn’t let him give up.

  Now, across the table, Storm said, “If the money’s there, if the feds and Georgia Bureau of Investigation can find it, can identify it as the bank money, we’ll have enough for a new trial. With an honest jury, we’ll have enough to hang Falon.”

  “They’ll fly Morgan back to Rome, for a new trial?”

  “Let’s find the money. If it’s there, if we can put together a solid case, I’d rather transfer jurisdiction out here to L.A. I think Lowe would, too.” Storm leaned back in the hard, folding chair. “I’ve talked with Lowe. The picture I get, Rome is a small town with a mind-set dead against Morgan. That can happen, you get that kind of thinking started, it’s hard to reverse. Lowe doubted that with the lies and trumped-up evidence, they could find an impartial jury. And the federal court in Atlanta is booked six months ahead.

  “Another thing,” Storm said, “as violent as Falon seems to be, it would be safer to keep him locked down here than to transport him back to Georgia.” Storm glanced at his watch. “Nearly midnight in Atlanta, but I’ll call Quaker. Once he’s contacted the FBI and GBI, I’m hoping they’ll head right on up to Turkey Mountain Ridge. Meantime,” he said, “I’ll call the bureau here, I know a couple of the agents. See if I can get them out here tonight to meet me, to talk with Falon.

  “And,” he said, “I’d like to know the details of what Falon did to Morgan, I’d like to file a charge.”

  “As soon as Morgan’s conscious long enough to talk,” Lee said. “As soon as he can tell us. I knew nothing until I saw him on the stretcher, headed for the infirmary. They wouldn’t let me near him.”

  “As for what you did to Falon,” Storm said, his gray eyes amused, “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “While they search for the money,” Lee said, “will Falon’s transfer be postponed?”

  “I’d guess it would. In the morning I’ll talk with Warden Iverson.” Rising, Storm picked up his briefcase.

  “And you’ll call Becky?” Lee said, pushing back his chair. “Tell her Morgan’s hurt? You can break it to her more gently than when the prison calls. Tell her I’m . . .” He winced at the inadequacy of saying he was sorry. There were no words to undo what had happened. Lee had talked Morgan into this trip, into harassing Falon. He might have talked Morgan into his last trip. Sure as hell, Becky would see it that way.

  Leaving the interviewing room, Lee shook Storm’s hand, mighty thankful for the day he’d flipped through the L.A. phone book and, with luck and the grace of God, had gotten through to Reginald Storm.

  But, stepping out into the hall where the guard stood waiting, Lee wondered if he’d had other help as well. Wondered, as crazy as it seemed, if the yellow tomcat had guided his hand as he ran his finger down the page of that battered phone book and stopped at the name Storm.

  Then he wondered if Sammie already knew about her daddy. Had she waked seeing Morgan on the stretcher, awakened from her dream crying out for him?

  Returning to his cell, lying back listening to the foghorns, all he could do now was wait—wait until the bureau interrogated Falon, wait until the feds had found the money—hope to hell they’d find it. Wait until he could see Morgan. Wait, and try not to think how this would all end.

  38

  A SINGLE LIGHT BURNED behind the hospital bed, illuminating the white bandage that circled Morgan’s scalp. Light caught across his stubble of beard and picked out the IV tube that ran down his arm, draining through a needle into the vein of his wrist. Lee couldn’t see Morgan breathing, couldn’t see the blanket move, but each time he laid his fingers along Morgan’s free wrist he found a faint pulse. Morgan had been unconscious all night and it was now nearly noon, the high sun slanting down through the half-closed Venetian blinds of the small hospital room. Lee sat in a wooden chair beside the bed, his knees pressed against the metal rail, talking; he’d been talking most of the night. Except for a short break to eat the breakfast an orderly had brought him, and for a brief nap on the other bed. A few minutes’ sleep, then he’d risen to groggily feel Morgan’s pulse and to start talking again.

  He had no idea if Morgan could hear him. The constant effort wearied him, but Dr. McClure had said to keep talking; he said the sound of Lee’s voice could be a lifeline for Morgan. Said the contact between Lee’s voice and whatever within Morgan was alert enough to listen might keep him from sinking deeper into an oblivion from which he could not return.

  Lee had no idea if that was so. He had no idea how much the medical profession really knew, and how much they could only guess. Dr. McClure was a strange man. You’d think a prison doc would be hardened, that after the twenty years he said he’d spent at T.I., he wouldn’t give a damn who lived and who died. But McClure’s sad, dark eyes under those bushy brows had shown Lee a whole world of caring inside that middle-aged, pudgy man. “Talk to him, Fontana. If you’re his friend and you want to help him live, talk to him and keep talking.”

  “But he can’t—”

  “You don’t know what he can hear. There’s a lot in this world we don’t know, maybe a lot we’ll never know. I say he can hear you and that talking to him might keep him alive. Sit here and talk, as long as you can, no matter how foolish that seems.”

  So Lee talked. McClure had gotten permission for him to stay with Morgan. The orderlies and male nurses moved around Lee doing their work, silently accepting his presence. Lee told Morgan over and over that Falon had spilled, had confessed where the money was hidden. He just hoped Falon wasn’t lying. He told Morgan that FBI and GBI agents were already on their way up Turkey Mountain Ridge to look for the evidence, for the proof that could clear Morgan—that could put Falon on trial for the robbery and murder. In between telling him about Falon, Lee talked about anything he could think of just to keep going; he dredged up memories that, after several hours, turned his voice rough and straining.

  He told Morgan about life in South Dakota when he was a kid, how he broke his first colt when he was eight. How he’d hobbled the youngster, dragged an old jacket over his neck and back and legs until the colt no longer snorted and bolted, how the colt finally settled down to lead. He told Morgan about spring roundup, how the steers and cows would hide among the mesquite or down in a draw and you had to rout them out. How the ranchers all helped each other rounding up the cattle, separating out their own stock during branding. The scenes of roundup came back so clearly, he recalled scanning the far hills where you could barely pick out a few head of steers, watching them slip away among the brush as a rider or two eased after them. He could still hear the calves bawling
during the sorting and branding, could still smell the burning hair and skin under the smoking iron, though it didn’t hurt them but for a minute or two.

  Sometimes, as Lee talked, he was aware of another presence, a warmth between the comatose man and himself, the touch of rough fur against his hand, and he could hear soft purring as the ghost cat pressed against Morgan. It seemed to Lee then that he could see the faintest of color in Morgan’s white, cold cheeks. Lee knew as well when the ghost cat had gone and wondered if he was with Sammie. He remembered Morgan’s description of Sammie’s sickness when Morgan, after the bank robbery, had been left drugged and unconscious in the backseat of his car, and Sammie herself was unable to stay awake. Now, with Morgan in a coma, was the child again lost in darkness? As Lee kept talking, hoping to reach Morgan, was he reaching out to Sammie, too?

  He told Morgan about his first train jobs, when he was barely seventeen, described how his chestnut mare would race alongside the engine keeping close to it as he dove off her back onto a moving car, how he’d taught her to follow the train, waiting for him. He tried to explain the fascination of the old steam trains, to describe his excitement when he, just a kid, was able to stop a whole train and haul away its riches. He told Morgan that was the life he’d always wanted, that he’d had no choice—but he knew that wasn’t true. No matter what you longed for, you always had a choice.

  Late on the second afternoon as dusk crept into the hospital room, Morgan stirred. His free hand moved on the covers, but then went still again. His eyes slit open for an instant unfocused, but then closed. At the same moment the shadows grew heavy around them. Suddenly Lee’s rambling voice sounded hollow, sucked into emptiness. The walls had vanished into shadows, the floor had dissolved except for the one ragged section that held Morgan’s bed and Lee’s chair. They drifted in dark and shifting space.